


Soup

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 14:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10618575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Riker cooks; Wesley sits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for ladystark428’s “Wes/Riker for the Cooking/mealtimes bingo square? Will does love to cook on the show, and I imagine Wes gets tired of all that replicated food.” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). (Regarding [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/158937866370/fic-bingo).)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s quite proud of himself: the meal looks exactly as it does in the data banks, and it smells even better. He arranges it around Endosian orchids on the table, topped off with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He’s just setting down the silverware when the doors slide open, Wesley strolling right in, sans any knock or call. He’s right on time, and he struts confidently across the carpet as though _he’s_ the one that’s just prepared a veritable banquet with his own two hands. He reaches the end of the table, pulls out his chair, and promptly swings one leg over it, settling gracefully down. As he offers a welcoming smile, Will takes his own chair. 

He grabs for the champagne to pop the cork, announcing first, “Well, I think congratulations are in order, lieutenant.” He gives Wesley a short wink that earns himself a broader grin. It’s going to be one of _those_ nights. He fills Wesley’s glass first as he waits for the impending compliments.

Instead, Wesley chirps, “Thanks, Will,” and reaches smugly for his glass.

Will snorts, thinking it a joke, but when nothing follows it, he lifts a brow and clarifies, “I meant for _me_.”

Wesley finishes his sip of bubbling gold, then asks airily, “What did you do?”

“Only make this entire Samarian feast _from scratch_ ,” Will answers, gesturing around. He didn’t mean to boast, but when Wesley fails to look any kind of impressed, Will stresses, “I made you one of the most rewarding but challenging meals this side of Ceti V, without a single use of the replicator.” Wesley glances pointedly at the brightly coloured fish neatly placed atop the salad, and Will has to amend, “With only one use of the replicator. Now what did _you_ do to deserve congratulations?”

Wesley smiles hard enough to dimple his youthful cheeks, and he purposely lounges back to announce, “I successfully accomplished the Riker maneuver. I’ve been working on it for months, and finally, no chairs or legs were injured in tonight’s process.”

Will waits an extra minute, half expecting a punch line to follow, but when it doesn’t, he just rolls his eyes. He did notice Wesley successfully mounting the chair, but he was too focused on the wide spread of Wesley’s thighs to pay attention to the movement’s origin. He finds himself grinning fondly anyway, and he _almost_ gives Wesley sincere praise.

Instead, Wesley breaks first, chuckling, “But thank you, Will. It looks amazing. And I could really use a proper, home cooked meal.” He picks up his fork and lifts it like giving a toast, then sets into the mashed yams—or the closest Samarian equivalent, at least. 

Will’s just about to make a joke about his quarters being referred to as his first’ officer’s ‘ _home_ ’ when Wesley screws up his face, eyes darting back down to his plate. He makes a visible effort to swallow, the coughs, “On second thought, there’s nothing wrong with a replicated pizza.” The second he’s finished the last word, he’s gulping down champagne.

Will counters warningly, “You better not be insulting my cooking.” But as soon as he’s got his own forkful in his mouth, he’s reaching for his own glass. Something must’ve gone horribly wrong between his last tasting and this finished project; he hadn’t intended to make edible gym socks, which is just about what it tastes like. 

Finished with his glass and already pouring more to cover the lingering taste of soggy wool, Will concedes, “Of course, you can’t go wrong with pizza.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Wesley offers, “I’ll get the order,” and stylishly dismounts his chair.


End file.
